Seasons
by 0Black0Rabbit0
Summary: "You're not a demon, Gintoki."


**Seasons**

He discovers that demons are incapable of feeling when he is told that half of their men didn't make it back to camp alive and the only thing he can feel is the rain dripping from his chin. He is reminded of this when he is embraced by Katsura and the only thing he feels is his friend's fervid heartbeat through their clothing tattered by the elements and rusty swords.

There is a hole in his chest, but he doesn't know what was in there in the first place. He tries to remember, but his mind is elsewhere and his judgement is clouded with fatigue and grief. He forgets how to walk and instead he drifts like a spirit of folklore, because emotion has been sequestered by the hollow cries of his dying comrades and the blood that never seemed to forsake his dry, caustic hands.

They call him _Shiroyasha._ He tests it on his tongue one bereaved evening under a dying Sakura tree and decides he doesn't like it. The emptiness remains, but he confirms his distaste for the name by the pungent taste it leaves in his mouth as it falls from his lips. He hopes the name dies along with the tree, but as the twisted roots wither, the name, unworthy of entity, still blooms. He thinks it's unfair how something so unworthy of life wanders the earth, yet a thing of beauty is forced to defer to the cruel fate that destiny has so mercilessly selected; but, he is empty, and no longer possesses the strength to infuriate himself with fruitless thoughts and meaningless contemplation. He watches it die, and the decaying roots and the wilting blossoms littering the floor watch him die too.

They no longer call him by his real name, and he almost forgets who he is. The Shiroyasha is no longer human; but he's always been a demon, so he's told. Being human is to feel, but demons succumb to the solitude and the trepidation that radiates from those around them, because it helps them to breathe.

He is different. He is alone. He cannot breathe.

He is both respected and feared by his comrades, but he concludes that comrade is just a word tossed around to try and make it seem like they were all on the same team. Shiroyasha is a one-man-army; he doesn't need comrades. But he is no White Demon-he is just a solider suffocating in his own sadness and choking on his remorse. He is drowning, his lungs burn for air, but everyone around him is breathing, and they only see the ghostly movements of his sword and a haori jacket stained with blood. They cheer, they shout him on, and he can almost smell their cowardice as they push him further into an unknown demise. They miss the vacancy in his eyes, because all they see is a demon; they don't see him falling apart.

 _'We'll win this war.'_

He is their anchor of hope holding them firmly to the ground. He is convinced that a lack of his presence would chase them all to a point of insanity.

 _'As long as we have him.'_

For a moment he is tempted-tempted to leave them all to rot like the Sakura tree. He is overcome by a moment of selfishness, because he wants them to feel what has been tearing him apart. He wants them to be eaten away by the numbness and consumed by emptiness. He wants to hear them suffocate, he wants to watch them drown.

But he can't. Demon or not, he already has their weight burdening his shoulders and holding him firmly to the ground so he remains sane. Killing is the subject of his focus. It almost helps him to breathe. He's not sure whether he's really protecting them at all, but if there's something infront of him, he disposes of it; he can see their cries of victory, but his ears refuse to hear anything but the drums of war.

He tries to take off the mask, but he is no longer wearing one. His default countenance is a ghostly mien etched on a complexion of chasm, and his body is no longer responsive to his will. He feels the impulse but doesn't recall lifting his sword, and he stares blankly at the blood on his hands, deaf to the cries that his presence fabricates, and blind to the corpse that falls at his feet. It cloaks his shoulders a deep shade of red, and the White Demon is gone. Instead, there is a black one standing in his place, and the battle swallows him whole.

The Shiroyasha tears through the battlefield with denuded animosity. He is feared for his demonic swordplay and his intrepid eyes. The demon doesn't fight; he dances, and he slashes and hacks and slices in a desperate attempt to feel. He wants to feel the fury gracing his hollow features, and he wants to embrace the regret he hides under his sleeve, but he forgets that demons can't feel so he just keeps fighting until everything around him is dead.

 _'He'll protect us.'_

He was their barricade. They stood together, and he remained a solitary beast. He clears their path, but there is no one to clear his. He throws himself into the fight, and he hears them following behind, but he turns and no one is behind him. As far as he can see, he can only distinguish his footprints, and his heart aches to feel doleful because he is alone. But he can't. He wants to mourn, but the emptiness refuses to let him grieve.

The Shiroyasha sobs softly for a demon, but no one is there to hear it.

 **-0-**

Katsura Kotaro approaches the Shiroyasha when the sun is slowly sinking down a blood stained sky. The demon has sentenced himself to the shadow of a Sakura tree in full bloom, and he holds a petal in his dry, caustic hands.

The Shiroyasha's eyes are devoid of emotion, and the blossom is wilted and dry. But it doesn't matter to him, because demons are incapable of feeling, and this demon cannot breathe.

But then Katsura sits down next to him, bringing with him the scent of green tea and fresh saké. He rests his head on the demon's shoulder, and places his gentle hand over the monster's palm. The petal falls to the ground, and is replaced by the warmth of his touch. Katsura utters a few soft words, and the name he uses is foreign, and for a moment the demon is unresponsive.

"You're not a demon, Gintoki."

Gintoki feels something in his chest. Katsura's touch is comforting and promises warmth. He smells safe, and Gintoki feels a stab of guilt because Katsura has always been there, but he has been too blind to see. Katsura smiles at him and Gintoki no longer has a hole in his chest, and he is no longer struggling to breathe.

He breathes in the scent of a thousand cherry blossoms, and it sets his chest aflame. Katsura is next to him, with his soft touches and his soft black hair which is way too long for his liking. But he doesn't care; Katsura is next to him, Katsura is warm, and Katsura makes him feel.

The Sakura tree blooms. A cherry blooms falls onto Gintoki's head and Katsura mutters something about him being a stupid perm-head whilst wearing a stupid grin, and removes it from his hair.

The demon dies like the old Sakura tree.

And like the new one, Gintoki takes its place.

...And what a beautiful thing.

* * *

 **Wow, I haven't written anything in _ages_. I just wanted to post something to let the people who are following my story 'Nakama' know that I'm not dead. I do plan to continue, but I have exams coming up and I'm struggling for time. I wrote this earlier in the year, back in the good ol' days where I had free time. It brings a tear to my eye just thinking about it :') But anyway, I thought i'd just upload it to give you guys something to read because I honestly hate letting people down and ditching stories.**

 **So yeah, I hope you enjoy. It's just a bit of writing practice and it only managed to scrape its way onto the internet because my friend gave me their opinion on it and they really liked it.**

 **And they don't even like Gintama.**

 **So basically, if I can please my friend, surely I can please my fellow Gintama nerds!**

 **Sorry for disappearing! I'm not dead, I promise! :)**


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